


The Wolf in the Evening Sun

by Skyboy91



Category: Chronicles of Prydain - Lloyd Alexander
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyboy91/pseuds/Skyboy91
Summary: A tale based on Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain, told from Prince Gwydion's point of view.At the end of the Book of Three, the journey to Caer Dallben was swift and unhindered.  Or was it?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. The Journey to Caer Dallben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey to Caer Dallben was swift and unhindered. Or was it?

A clarion call of trumpets sounded, and carried across the plains before Caer Dathyl, clear and triumphant, echoing back from the distant hills with a fading tone even more beautiful and unforgettable. Taran and his companions, who had just departed the great gates with Prince Gwydion and his company, turned and stared in amazement at the trumpeters, their horns above the battlements high above the gates. Gwydion's mind flashed back to the last horn he could remember hearing, that of Gwyn the Hunter, and for a moment thought of how this sound evoked such vastly different emotions – courage and hope, as opposed to despair and hopelessness.

After the trumpet fanfare, the guards lining the ramparts of the front walls of the fortress began to cheer. Gwydion turned Melyngar to face them, and lifted his hand. The guards cheered even louder, and Gwydion nodded to the companions, encouraging them to do likewise. As the companions raised their own hands, the cheer reached a crescendo. From the high central tower of the great fortress, a tall figure with a long white beard appeared and raised his hand, appearing to Taran's suddenly blurred vision much like his master Dallben. Gwydion saw the bright tears in Taran's dark green eyes, and even in the Princess Eilonwy's crystal blue ones.

"Well," began Eilonwy. "That's like…that's like…oh, I hate it when I have absolutely nothing to compare something to!"

"That, my dear Princess," Gwydion smiled, "is just a small token of thanks from the Royal Guard of Caer Dathyl **;** all of you are heroes now in their eyes. Were it not for your bravery and ingenuity, Caer Dathyl most probably would now lie in ruins, and all of us might well be enslaved, dead, or worse. Enjoy that victory while you can, and may it help sustain you for whatever lies ahead." With that, Gwydion waved once again to the walls in farewell, and turned Melyngar south toward the valley of the Ystrad. The trumpets called out once again, and then were silent as the companions followed.

"So it shall be," Gwydion had said to Taran a few days before, when granting his wish to return home. And as there was no time to waste, he arranged to depart quickly. Gwydion had picked four of his best men from among the elite guards of Caer Dathyl and set out to escort the company to Caer Dallben.

The first day of the journey passed quickly in golden sunlight. It was such a joyous outing, almost a summer lark. After the battle had ended and the danger of Annuvin pushed away for the moment, it seemed that all of Prydain was rejoicing — even the green hills and blue skies seemed ebullient. All the company, even Gwydion, were in the highest of spirits. It was not normally his nature to enjoy anything too much…even now, his eyes darted everywhere, looking for gwythaints against the white clouds, or renegade splinter bands of cantrev rebels under the trees. But so far at least, none were to be found.

"All clear to the east, My Lord," Captain Gwaednerth called, and the prince acknowledged with a nod. Gwaednerth saluted, turned and galloped back toward the Ystrad and east side of the valley.

Taran had brought Melynlas up to ride beside Gwydion, and asked, "Lord Gwydion, may I ride with Captain Gwaednerth this afternoon? I would like to try crossing the river with Melynlas…as you know, my fording skills could use some practice, and the Ystrad is very shallow here."

Gwydion hesitated, but Taran's earnest look led him to give an affirmative answer. "Very well," his leathered face creasing into a smile, "but return to the main group within a few hours. I am sure Dallben would never forgive me if I lost you again, and assistant pig-keepers of your skill and reputation are hard to come by."

Taran grinned broadly and swiftly galloped to join Gwaednerth, Melynlas easily closing the distance.

Gwydion was glad to be re-united with Melyngar, after the longest separation he could remember in a dozen or more years. Melyngar, his saddle and saddlebags, his worn travel cloak, and his sword were all he usually needed to feel complete and purposeful. After his recent experiences, the most significant and profound of his long life, he felt that he knew his enemy as never before. In his mind he had seen him, he had known his thoughts. Arawn, he knew, could not be defeated by well-fed nobles within Caer Dathyl, plotting behind thick stone walls, but only by men with long experience in the field, men who knew Prydain from north to south, from east to west. Men who understood how the enemy's many servants and allies operated, what their strengths and weaknesses were, what motivated them, and how Arawn would most likely next deploy them.

Gwydion glanced to his side at the sword he now carried—still a little strange to him, and he was at times a little reluctant to draw it; as if it still belonged to someone else in the long past. Sometimes he missed his old sword, that elegant, well-balanced and understated weapon, the pale gold color of the pommel deliberately muted, and its lovely simple pattern of ash leaves. It had belonged to his father, King Math's younger brother, before his untimely death. His father had named the sword Euraidd, and it had carried its own enchantment — the Sons of Don were not without such powers, but they were used sparingly, only when necessary. Euraidd had died well, resisting Achren's attempts to shatter it to the very end, when she had called on words of power much older than the sword, words from the dark early history of Prydain, long before the Sons of Don had first landed on these shores.

The sword's enchantment had burst out like the sun, emblazoned on every banner of his house, the emblem of the Sons of Don. The enchantment Euraidd had carried was understated, like the sword itself, but it was not insignificant. It was a microcosm of what made the Sons of Don what they were, and Gwydion thought if it could be summed up in a word, what might make them special, and different from some other men, the word would be conscience. And Achren he sensed, whether she willed it or not, now carried some small part of that conscience with her.

The thought of Achren’s conscience had come to him while he was suffering horrors in the prison of Oeth-Anoeth. Strangely, it seemed that Achren was not only his torturer, but was also suffering with him. He had felt her presence, he felt and saw how she had been humiliated, and how she had suffered herself at Arawn's hands. He sensed however, that it was not her presence in its current form; but some echo of her memories of the past.

Since Oeth-Anoeth, he felt that he could occasionally sense her thoughts; although it was difficult to be sure, and could only be an echo of her past memories that he had experienced. He feared that the connection might be reciprocal — that possibly, Achren could sense his own thoughts—which could of course be dangerous. 

Also, he mused—perhaps through Euraidd, Achren might now feel just a vestige of what it might be like to be one of the Children of Don.

It was conscience that had first brought the Children of Don to Prydain, so long ago. The Lady Don and her consort Lord Belin, King of the Sun, had seen from afar the evil that befell the fair land of Prydain. First from Achren, who had reigned and oppressed for a long age, and then from Arawn, after he had gained most of Achren's power, and then betrayed her. Arawn had then set about betraying and deceiving the race of men, stealing their treasures of knowledge, in agriculture, in metallurgy, in medicine, hiding them away in Annuvin or bending them to his own evil uses.

Don and Belin had everything a heart could desire in the Summer Country; they and their children lived never-ending lives of bliss and joy. But they could feel the pain in Prydain - and see the suffering of its people. Their love and their conscience could not accept what they saw and felt, and they resolved to send their own children to challenge Arawn, and repair what they could of the damage that had been done. But this decision was not without pain and cost — their children would suffer the pain of normal men, and the cost would be their children's lives, for they must live as mortals outside the Summer Country.

But the decision was made, and the Children of Don agreed and understood — they obeyed their parents, built golden ships, and bravely sailed for Prydain. They built a majestic stronghold in the Eagle Mountains, an echo of the beauty they had left in the Summer Country, and named it Caer Dathyl. The people of Prydain, for the most part, recognized their worth and rallied to their banner, and the Sons of Don came to rule Prydain — except for Annuvin itself, and a few realms also under Arawn's control. The Sons of Don did challenge Arawn, and succeeded in wresting some of mankind's stolen treasures back from him. But the battle was ongoing; it seemed never ending, and Arawn was a formidable foe.

The sword Gwydion now carried had a scabbard almost black with age, with mysterious mars and scratches. The hilt was jeweled, not in an ornate way, detracting from the blade's utility, but simply done, in a way that spoke of nobility of purpose. Dyrnwyn was very different from Euraidd **;** it was an ancient treasure of Prydain, one that Arawn had not touched. It was almost as old as Prydain itself. In a way, he felt the blade _was_ Prydain, the heart and soul of his beloved adopted country — and the enchantment laid on it, he believed, could not be undone by Achren, or even by Arawn.

* * *

Gwydion tried to put the Land of Death from his mind for the moment. The danger from Arawn was, at least for the moment, remote, and this trek was not a foray against him — the next would need to wait a little while longer. He saw to the east, Taran galloping to return to the company, in accordance with his orders. The lad certainly seemed to have a way about him, despite his youth and inexperience, that inspired an impressive amount of loyalty. Gwydion himself felt the same way, since the day he and Taran had stood together against five living warriors and two of the Cauldron-born, and then were dragged before Achren in Spiral Castle. The boy had fought bravely against both, armed only with a dagger, and had stayed with him to fight in a battle they could not win — even after ordered to take Melyngar and fly. Even under Achren's interrogation and narcotic spell, with Gwydion's urging he had maintained his courage and his silence, not revealing the nature of their mission.

Gwydion's mind drifted back to the musings of Dallben, when they had spoken years ago, and Taran had been a youth of just seven or eight. He was just a typical lad by all appearances, doing his best to help Coll with the daily farm chores, his arms full of freshly pulled turnips — and obviously, with no idea at all about who was the tall stranger who spoke with his master. _The Book of Three_ was full of riddles, it all seemed so unlikely then. But now, like Dallben, he could see the possibilities.

The company followed the direct route of the Valley of Ystrad, trying to avoid the trampled earth of the Horned King's army, which had been traveling in the opposite direction only a few short days before. Gwaednerth, Captain of the guards of Caer Dathyl, and Lieutenant Tomos were outriding on the east side of the valley, and on the west side were Lieutenants Eirian and Colwyn. Gwydion stayed near the companions, either riding at the front or at the rear of the column, often preferring the rear so he could keep an eye on all, including his outriders.

Gwydion considered each of Taran's new companions in turn — none of whom would be denied this visit to the old farm of Caer Dallben. All rode on fine mounts he himself had gifted, with Taran on the finest, Melnygar's own magnificent foal Melynlas. First, the impetuous sometime-king but more-often-bard Flewddur Fflam — who was also his own kinsman and, like his father before him, a valiant and stalwart ally among the northern cantrevs — in contrast to his carefree ways. Next to Flewddur on a sturdy pony rode Doli of the Fair Folk, whom Gwydion had surmised to be trusted servant of King Eiddileg, despite his sometimes surly manner and bluster. Fflewddur and Doli spoke in low voices and occasionally burst into laughter, and Gwydion smiled to himself at the growing friendship between what seemed to be two complete opposites. He thought Doli's fondness for all of these mortals a bit unusual, the Fair Folk were not normally given to consorting with humans for long periods. On the few occasions that their eyes met, Doli had given him a knowing look — he surmised, conveying a mutual understanding that there was more to this outwardly motley company than met the eye. Which meant that had probably been obvious to King Eiddileg as well, in the short time he had observed the companions.

Next rode Gurgi of the Forest, with whom Gwydion had long been familiar, but who now seemed almost made anew, grown in stature and belief in his own self-worth, thanks to the kindness of his new friends. Now, he was also extremely excited at Taran's invitation for him to stay at Caer Dallben, the first real home he had ever known. Gurgi proudly led the two horses carrying the oracular pig Hen Wen on a litter, who was looking very satisfied to be heading homeward.

Finally, there came the Princess Eilonwy, Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat, whom Gwydion had only met recently at Caer Dathyl—strangely, after having seen a vision of her in Oeth-Anoeth—which he wished to discuss with Dallben.

Eilonwy always seemed to be riding somewhere close to Taran — but did not wish to appear so, he had noticed with some amusement. Gwydion had also noticed that young Lieutenant Eirian, who was as handsome and precocious as he was capable, was keeping a very close eye on the princess, and never failed to pay his respects whenever he returned to the central column or to camp in the evenings. Taran for his part was keeping just as close an eye on Eirian — and always kept the princess within his sight.

As incredible as his own tale had been, from the moment he and Taran were dragged from the throne room in Spiral Castle, the tale of the companions was just as incredible, and in some ways even more so. Taran had somehow come by these friendships through twists of both good fortune and fate. Taran, Eilonwy and Fflewddur had all escaped Spiral Castle…and in the process, brought about not only the destruction of Achren's fortress, but also the discovery of the ancient weapon of power he now carried, thought by many to be no more than a legend.

He looked again to his side, and he could feel it even now, its heart seemed to be singing and rejoicing in the fine day almost as much as his own. So old, but so alive — sensing, he felt, a looming final struggle, and eager for the challenge. He knew fragments of the blade's lineage — and had spoken with the Chief Bard Taliesin to learn more, in the days after the fall of the Horned King. Much was still unknown, or long forgotten. But with the blade in his hands, so much more was possible, he thought. It was possible the power the blade wielded was so great, it _could_ shift the balance of power, turn the tide against Arawn, in the long struggle between the black power of Annuvin and the strength and nobility of the Sons of Don. Such things he now sensed. Keen awareness and inner wisdom were native to his people, a birthright, but lately that wisdom and knowledge had been so augmented by what he had gained as a result of his ordeal at Oeth-Anoeth. That brilliance was still there, but now fading somewhat, he feared. It was true he was descended from immortals, but that was many generations ago. He was perhaps more gifted than most men, but he was no god himself, not now. Now he was a mortal man, and some thoughts and revelations were still beyond his grasp, he could not hold on for long to the wonders of the universe. But now at least, he could conceive what they were, even if only for a short time.

He had heard whispered words the month before, as he rode bound to a saddle, being led toward the ancient fortress of Oeth-Anoeth. Achren and one of her captains rode ahead, speaking in low voices as the miles passed slowly by, under the dark trees. The whispers had given him some clues about why Achren was in Spiral Castle — it was apparently as part of some overall scheme with Arawn. She was still in league with him, despite being betrayed by him, and the deep hatred she felt for him. 

Achren had spoken of her long and fruitless search for the ancient sword — she had called it by name — and had also named the ancient King Rhitta. It seemed that every time Achren had thought the blade was located, somehow the catacombs beneath Spiral Castle swallowed it up again.

Achren was still speaking in frustrated tones, when a low rumble came to them through the forest, like a summer thunderstorm many miles to the southeast, the direction from which they had come. The horses stood for a few moments, Achren and her servant frozen and listening, but no more sounds were forthcoming. Then, Achren spoke sharply in a harsh language to one of her guards following Gwydion in the small procession, and with a word of acknowledgement he turned his mount and began to gallop back in the direction of Spiral Castle. Gwydion sensed that something of enormous import had occurred; he was not sure what, but he suspected the sound was more than a thunderstorm. The horses began moving again, deeper along the trail into the dark forest - drawing closer, Gwydion sensed, to Oeth-Anoeth. He knew it to be a place of torture, of death, for hundreds before him; it had existed stewing in its own evil long before Arawn, or even possibly before Achren. The thought of what awaited him there filled him with a deep dread unlike any he had known before. Perhaps better, he had thought, if Achren had taken his life in the throne room of Spiral Castle.

* * *

In the here and now, the company was passing through a lovely copse of ancient oak trees near the river, many of their huge roots reaching toward the water. Wildflowers jeweled the floor of the little forest, with the river to the east and bright green hills to the west. Gwydion saw Eilonwy speaking and laughing with Taran and the others on the trail just ahead. He urged Melyngar up to join them.

"Oh, this way is so much more pleasant than the path we followed toward Caer Dathyl," Eilonwy said. "I think I might have mentioned that possibility at the time, not that anyone was listening to me!"

"Yes," interjected Taran with a sarcastic grin, "only if it hadn't been for the Cauldron-Born who were chasing us, surely we would have stuck closer to this path near the river. Of course, in that case we never would have found Hen Wen — and we would all be much worse off now."

"All in all, I think my guidance and navigation proved to be quite successful for our little venture," added Fflewddur. "And as I believe _I_ mentioned before, my own war leader could not have planned it better!" Gwydion imagined he heard the sounds of harp strings tensing, but they did not quite break.

Gwydion smiled. "None of us quite followed the path to Caer Dathyl we had originally planned, it seems. But fate was kind to us all. I don't recall this area ever looking finer," and to the Princess, "or having a lovelier traveling companion."

In Caer Dathyl, they had spoken of her mother Angharad, and Eilonwy was so much like her, both in appearance and in manner. Eilonwy knew little of her parents — apparently, she had been kidnapped by Achren at quite a young age, and only tiny fragments of memories remained.

While his outer senses remained vigilant to the possible dangers of the road, inwardly Gwydion again traveled back in time. He had never met Eilonwy's father, but he could only imagine that he had to be a remarkable man to capture Angharad's heart. He knew her only too well. He recalled her luminous green eyes, eyes that glowed with all the power and mystery of the sea. He could see them in the day and the night, when awake and when in his deepest dreams. Eyes that had looked at him with respect, with friendship, with compassion, and sometimes even with pity. But never with love.

Had she thought him not capable of the kind of love she yearned for? If he could have, he would have given it to her - he would have given her anything, given up everything, and lived only to cherish her, in long flights of fancy that only the bards could properly put into words. If he could have. But he knew, and she knew, he could not. He had voluntarily chosen to follow the path that had been set before him. He had a mission in Prydain that his ancestors had laid out for him long ago — and as much as he might wish it at times, he could not turn from that path. She could see that in him, she knew him for what he was — and it was not the kind of life, nor the kind of love that she wanted.

"Why did she not give a thought to her people, when your union might have saved them?" queried King Math many years ago, "…as well as everyone in Prydain. Really, I expected your numerous visits to Llyr to bear fruit — in the form of a marriage, and children. I had never seen you so eager to make the journey over and over to the same destination… an alliance with Llyr could have helped us hem in Arawn for at least a while longer. And think of your descendants. You are as worthy an heir as has been born since our ancestors first sailed to Prydain — if Belin himself could have taken wolf form, he would have been you. But as mighty and wise as you usually are, the power of the children of the Sun and the Moon could have been glorious — and could have ruled Prydain well in their own time. Her thoughts were simply of herself and her own desires. "

Gwydion was quick to defend Princess Angharad to the old King. "Do not speak of her so," he said. "I knew her well; she was noble, kind and courageous. Yes, I cared deeply for her; I wanted nothing but the best for her. But for her, the best — the best simply was not me. I was older than her, in body yes, but even more so in spirit. Like me, she carried heavy responsibilities — but her heart was still very young. It was called elsewhere; and yearned for something I could not give."

"Poetic and gracious sentiments," had replied Math, "and in my youth perhaps I could have been more sympathetic to them. But now Llyr is destroyed, and there is no power to the west that can challenge Arawn. All his thought and energy can now be bent upon us, and we are not what we once were. You know as well as I that the Sons of Don are not destined to be a power much longer in Prydain. How much longer I do not know – perhaps another generation or two; perhaps only a few more years. The fall of Llyr seems to make the latter more likely. But the question is what will come after – a bright new dawn for men, or a bleak and cheerless sun over a dark land ruled by death."

* * *

For the travelers, the next handful of days passed quickly, the daylight hours in scenic and peaceful travel, and the evenings in conversation and song around a cooking fire. Fflewddur proved himself to be a wonderful entertainer; Gwydion had seen many accomplished bards who were less skilled on the harp or in song, and certainly who were less humorous. Also, Doli proved himself to be quite a storyteller and regaled the travelers with many fantastic and mysterious tales of the Fair Folk, the like of which none of them, even Gwydion in all his travels, had ever heard.

The trip had so far proven uneventful in terms of sighting possible hostile forces, and Gwydion had decided that two outriders were now sufficient; one east and one west, with the other two remaining with the main company. They drew closer to Caer Dallben, and not far from the ruins of Spiral Castle – which Gwydion did not mention, as he reasoned the thought might possibly unnerve Eilonwy.

That evening Fflewddur struck up a lively tune on his harp, accompanied by his excellent voice. The song spoke of a fair young lady going to a dance, and Eilonwy seemed especially enraptured.

Bold young Eirian approached her where she was seated on a fallen log, and with a wink and a deep and courtly bow, asked her, "My Lady, I know a commoner has no right to ask a princess to dance, but as you are the only lady present, would you honor me with the pleasure? It will be something to tell my children about one day, you see, the night I danced with a princess." His dark eyes sparkled and Eilonwy's eyes widened in both surprise and delight, and they darted quickly to Taran, who was seated close to her. Gwydion choked back a laugh when he saw Taran's face, which looked as if he had just swallowed a wasp.

Eilonwy looked to Eirian and said, "Of course! Although I warn you, I have never danced before, and I am afraid I will be as awkward as Hen Wen walking across a frozen stream."

Eirian responded with his most winning grin, revealing an almost perfect set of white teeth — with only one missing — misplaced in a drunken but relatively good-natured brawl in a tavern near Caer Dathyl a year or so ago, as Gwydion recalled. "My Lady," he responded, "I will be happy to lead you, and with your natural grace, I am sure you will be dancing as well as the finest ladies in Prydain, in no time at all!"

Eilonwy smiled, took his hand and stood, and with a nod to Fflewddur, they began. Sure enough, Eilonwy was so light on her feet, and Eirian such a good leader, that as promised in practically no time at all, she danced as if she were born to it. As the pair moved gracefully next to the fire, Gwydion smiled and all the company began to clap — even Taran, and although his eyes still glinted a bit with jealousy, he forced a smile, for even he could see that Eilonwy was having a wonderful time. She was indeed a lovely vision, none could ever recall seeing the like… except Gwydion, who had seen something quite similar. His eyes glazed a bit and deep in his memory, he saw a figure — with hair more of a flaming red but moving with the same grace and beauty — at a formal ball in Caer Dathyl when the Princess Angharad was visiting as an ambassador from Llyr. With many noble ladies of Prydain in attendance, she stood out like an exotic red-gold bird among ravens.

Fflewddur brought the lively composition to a close and smiled toward the dancers as he gave a nod, which they returned. Eirian again bowed deeply to Eilonwy. "Thank you, my Lady. I am most grateful for the dance, and I hope you will grace me with another sometime," he said with another friendly but saucy wink.

"Thank _you_ , Sir Eirian," Eilonwy smiled, "You are as good a teacher as you are a dancer, and I certainly enjoyed it!" Eilonwy glanced rapidly at Taran, who managed a dim smile over gritted teeth.

"This has been a memorable evening, "Gwydion smiled. "It is not every day you get to see such a spirited dance — and such a lovely flower in full bloom. But I think it is time to have our evening meal, and then get some rest. Tomorrow late in the day, with good luck we shall cross the Avren, and Caer Dallben is not far away. Eirian and Colwyn, you have the first watch."

* * *

They had camped near the tree line on the west side of the Ystrad valley, and it was well before midnight when Gwydion awoke with a start. His sleep had been restless, and he had again dreamed of Achren — in ways mostly cold and painful, but in others, warm, sultry, pleasant and maddening. He could feel her touch on the old wound in his side, warmth spreading throughout his body like poisoned honey, and he could feel her presence — she felt close, as if she sensed him, and as if she coveted something. Suddenly he felt another presence as well, one he had not felt for many long years, as strong as Achren's, and it seemed to be opposing her. Behind the second, there was another strong presence, but much, much older.

The full moon was still in the east, sending long shadows from the trees, pointing like fingers. His senses grew very sharp, more than human, as if he had awoken in the form of the wolf he resembled, and he felt the need to hunt. He felt an echo of the vast consciousness he had felt after he had escaped Oeth-Anoeth – he was still not quite sure how he had escaped, one moment he languishing in a deep cell, surrounded by unspeakable horrors, the next, it was as if the walls had melted, he was outside and walking toward the surrounding woods.

Now, as he looked to the full moon, it seemed incredibly bright, the brightest he had ever seen, brighter than seemed possible. He heard the bard snoring peacefully a few paces away. "Gwaednerth, Colwyn, Eirian, come with me," he whispered urgently, "Tomos, remain here to guard the camp, and let the others sleep." A pair of bright red eyes glinted at him from the darkness, and Doli appeared. "I'm coming with you," the dwarf said, and Gwydion nodded. "Arm yourselves, but leave your horses here. We need to move quietly, and we patrol to the west." Doli and his men nodded, and a few moments later, they were walking quietly under the trees, following the shadows, the moon at their backs.

As they approached the top of the rise at the edge of the valley, Gwydion froze. He heard low, rough voices, and the snap of twigs. Doli whispered quietly to him, "Stay here. Time to put that gift to work; I'll be right back," and then suddenly he was gone. "Hornets and Wasps!" Gwydion heard him grumble in the darkness. He and his men crouched quietly, and only moments later Doli reappeared. "Huntsmen," he whispered tersely. "Just over the rise, in a small clearing. A band of seven, making camp, but no fire. I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but why are magical gifts never what they should be? You have no idea what turning invisible does to my ears!"

Gwydion smiled grimly but considered quickly. He knew the danger the Huntsmen of Annuvin represented; worse even than the Cauldron-Born. They were intelligent, capable and fierce fighters, both swift and tireless. He motioned for his men, and they all huddled together behind a thick tangle of trees and underbrush below the summit. "We must disable them all, but do not kill them," he whispered. "As you all know, the death of one will only add to the strength of the others. Bows first," and he nodded to Eirian — the finest bowman among his guards — and Colwyn and Doli, who also had their bows strung and ready, "then blades, but strike for their limbs, to disable them, but leave them alive. We must take all seven." All nodded in acknowledgement, and in a short line, they crept silently to the top of the rise.

In the bright silver light opposite the moon, the seven huntsmen were as visible as broad daylight, crouched facing each other, six clad in the skins of wolves, and one in bearskin – apparently their leader, for he was whispering fiercely to the others in the guttural speech of Annuvin. All were armed with short swords and four with bows, and their belts bristled with daggers. Gwydion knew that he and his men were still only shadows in the darkness to the war band, with the fierce moon shining from behind them.

He heard the bows next to him creak, and three arrows were at the ready. "Loose!" he whispered. Three arrows leaped across the forty yards separating them, and three of the enemy bowmen screamed in pain and rage. Gwydion and the band were already running, closing the distance quickly, while the bearskinned huntsman squinted across the darkness and saw the shadows beginning to take shape as they ran toward him. He drew his sword, and two of his companions followed suit, as the fourth bowman of the huntsmen dropped to his knee and prepared to release. But before he could, another bow sang from behind Gwydion and to his right, an arrow hissed and the bowman screamed, dropped his bow and clutched at his left shoulder. Eirian's second arrow had found its mark. The three remaining huntsmen closed ranks as Gwydion's five drew closer. Doli had his axe out, and Gwydion's men drew their swords — all except Eirian, who still covered the field with his longbow, looking for an opportunity. With his left hand, Gwydion drew a long dagger from his belt, leaving his sword sheathed. He approached the huntsmen, flanked by his men and Doli on each side.

The huntsman clad in bearskin had a face covered in scars and a bristling black beard, and his forehead bore the scarlet brand of Annuvin. He smiled at Gwydion as if inviting him to parley. As Gwydion's warriors began to surround the three standing huntsmen, suddenly the leader gave a quick nod toward his wounded companions. Gwydion watched in horror as all four drew short daggers from their belts, and all at once, as if in a ritual long practiced, each plunged his dagger into his own heart, and each turned his face to the sky and gave a weird keening cry, even as they all fell.

The leader and his two companions were silent, and then there was a long sigh as each drew a deep breath. "Close on them quickly"! Gwydion cried, and leaped toward them. The three suddenly snarled like enraged beasts, and then the two wolfskin clad warriors furiously rushed toward them and began hacking with incredible speed and strength. The first broke the blade of Colwyn and drove him to his knees before another arrow from Eirian pierced his thigh, and Colwyn drew his own dagger and plunged it into the huntsman's sword arm. He bellowed like a madman, biting and snarling like a rabid dog as he fell, still attempting to crawl toward his foes.

The second huntsman had engaged Captain Gwaednerth, one of the finest swordsmen among all of Gwydion's warriors. He defended himself with great skill against brutal strength and fury, fending off blows that each sounded as if they would fell a tree. Gwaednerth was driven back, his sword blade notched, when suddenly an axe swung into the back of the huntsman's knee from an invisible hand. The huntsman screamed and fell to his knee, and the invisible hand with the axe struck his sword wrist as he stared open mouthed. The sword fell uselessly to the ground, and he fumbled to draw a dagger with his left hand. Doli reappeared before him, brandishing the axe, and the dagger fell from his nerveless fingers.

Gwydion had been holding the bearskinned warrior at bay with his dagger, and he had glanced around to gauge the tide of the surrounding battle, but now looked back toward the leader. He drew Dyrnwyn from its sheath just as the huntsman's hand shot forward. Gwydion saw the dagger glittering in the moonlight, spinning in the air as it flew at him fast as an arrow. At this distance the blade could not be evaded but only countered. Dyrnwyn crossed his waist and flicked upward in white flame; there was a ringing, sliding flash of sparks and the dagger was deflected from his breast, spinning into the ground to his right, smoldering with heat, the blade broken. In the next instant the huntsman was upon him, but the sight of the flaming sword had unnerved him; his eyes wide with wonder and fear, he raised his own blade but hesitated. Dyrnwyn swung back and shattered the weapon, and in the next instant Gwydion’s dagger pierced his neck. For a brief second, he stared at Gwydion, his eyes still wide, and then he fell to his knees.

Gwydion glanced about and seeing the other remaining huntsmen disabled and surrounded, gave a cry to his men, "All at once now, finish them!" Blades struck and arrows hissed, and Dyrnwyn swung once more. There was a sudden whirlwind that crackled the dry leaves; it spun and rose high in the air, and drifted away into nothingness, and again all was silent. Somewhere in the far-reaching part of his mind, Gwydion sensed astonishment—and also an element of fear— from one quarter, and deep satisfaction and joy from the opposing twin spirits.

Gwydion looked down at the leader's lifeless body and noticed a leather cord around his neck. He tore open the bearskin cloak, and suspended from the cord was a small tile with a picture painted upon it. The likeness was crude, but the blue eyes and red-gold hair were unmistakable. "Do not speak of this to the others, or to anyone," he said grimly to his men and Doli. "The Princess Eilonwy has always moved from one danger to another, she has known nothing but fear all of her young life. I would not now have her know that she is already being pursued. Soon she will be at Caer Dallben, and there, for now at least, neither Achren nor Arawn can touch her."

The unearthly brightness of the moon seemed now to be fading. Somewhere far to the northwest in the direction of the dark mountains, he felt an awareness, and a growing and intense new fury.

* * *


	2. A Meeting of Minds

Gwydion and his impromptu war band had returned quickly to camp, where good Tomas had stood faithfully alone at guard. “I need less rest than you mortals,” Doli whispered gruffly to Gwydion, “so I will keep watch so you and yours can get a few hours of sleep.” Gwydion and his men accepted gratefully and were soon settled into their bedrolls, where sleep found them all as soon as they closed their eyes. All but Gwydion, who continued to mull the import of the evening’s events in his restless mind, trying to fit different pieces into the mosaic of the future that was always half formed in his consciousness. Finally the weight of his weariness overcame him as well.

He awoke after sunrise to the sound of Eilonwy’s lilting voice, chattering excitedly with Taran and Fflewddur about their pending arrival at Caer Dallben. “Tell me again about the apple trees,” Eilonwy was saying, and Taran was only too happy to explain all the simple domestic details of farm life that seemed to enthrall her – Coll had planted many of them before he was born, but there were young ones that he had helped plant, after watching Coll germinate the seeds and coax the young saplings to a size where they could be replanted, how many apples they harvested a year, and so on. The two seemed to fascinate each other—when they weren’t arguing—and their growing bond was obvious to all, but mostly he thought, to himself and to Fflewddur. He saw Fflewddur looking at them often with a little smile as they spoke, humming to himself, and sometimes glancing at Gwydion with a knowing wink. 

He allowed himself a short moment to remember another voice that was so musical and so similar, on a bright clear morning next to an emerald green sea long ago, before opening his eyes. Angharad had never really needed or wanted his help, but perhaps he could still be of service to her daughter. If he had ever been bitterly angry with Achren before, the knowledge that she still pursued Eilonwy made him doubly so. Had she not interfered in the young girl’s life enough?

Clearly, Achren had stolen Eilonwy from her parents—and may well have killed them both. At the very least, she could have been the cause of their disappearance. What did Achren hope to gain from the young princess, and where was she now?

In addition to Taran, Eilonwy and Fflewddur, Gurgi was awake as well, and he could sense the excitement of all. Avren was close, and Caer Dallben only a few hours beyond that. 

“We will cross the Ystrad here,” Gwydion announced, as his men aroused themselves and Doli sauntered back into camp, and all ate a quick breakfast. “Then we will strike southwest, for a narrower ford of Great Avren is to be found in that direction.” 

Soon all were in their saddles, and splashing through the Ystrad at a shallow ford, the cool water awakening them all fully and doing nothing to dampen the companion’s growing exhilaration.

Gwydion rode alongside Fflewddur for a time, glad for an opportunity to speak alone with the bard king of Caer Fflam. “Well, my wandering cousin,” he began with a gentle laugh, “How long has it been since you’ve been home this time? I know brave Cadwallon and good Baeddan will be missing you—and every child in the cantrev will be waiting to hear your magnificent tales. I believe you will have plenty of new ones to tell them.”

“Great Belin, how long _has_ it been?” Fflewddur exclaimed with a start, running a hand through his wild yellow locks. “I’d nearly forgotten I was a king at all; it seems like it’s been ages. Before Achren got her hands on me…let’s see…I wandered for a good three or four months in the spring, through the Llawgadarn settlements and the hill cantrevs…I visited with old King Smoit for the longest time; he loves a good song and a good story…and serves a belt-bursting meal, as you well know! 

“I remember snow was still on the ground when I left the castle in Caer Fflam. So, it’s been the better part of the year, and indeed it’s high time I got back to check on things. They can’t do without me for long you know; only I have the head for making those important decisions of state…”

Gwydion thought he heard a high tinny squeal, as if harp strings were stretched to their limits. Fflewddur cocked his head immediately at the sound, and continued on quickly.

“Actually, I’m _quite sure_ they don’t need me at all; they seem to do quite well without me, in some ways better…but I do think they miss me a bit, my dear friends at home, and I certainly miss them—even if I don’t miss that dreary old castle. Be that as it may, I will certainly be heading back to Caer Fflam after we see Taran home… and I assume, after we see our lovely princess safely back to Caer Dathyl?”

Gwydion smiled. “It may well be, my friend, that the princess will remain at Caer Dallben for a time. There is much Dallben can teach her…and there may be other reasons, but do not speak of that just yet.”

Fflewddur stared at him, but seemed more elated than surprised. “That sounds like a wonderful plan! No I won’t mention it…if that horrid Achren is still looking for her, it’s probably the best place she can be, from what I have heard of Dallben. What an existence the poor girl must have had, growing up thinking of her as her ‘aunt.’” He shuddered, and rubbed his long nose nervously. “As I told Taran and Eilonwy before, she certainly has no ear for music! After I finished my first song that night—a rather rousing number, or so I thought, to get things off on a good foot— she looked at me as if I were a cockroach that needed squashing on the floor. “You call yourself a _bard_?” she said, with a voice as cold as an icicle, before ordering her guards to throw me in the dungeon. I’ve never been so frightened in my life of a woman, or of anyone else for that matter. A Fflam is courageous, but Achren…” He stopped, and shuddered again.

* * *

They rode silently for a while after that, and Gwydion himself thought of Achren. Yes, she was in most ways the very embodiment of haughty imperious power, caring little for others, sacrificing anything and destroying everything to obtain what she wanted. She had an incredible, cold beauty that could bring men to tears, and make them her willing slaves, just for the touch of her hand or even a kind word. Her appearance was not affected by time, but he knew her to be old, very old, with terrible crimes in her past, both committed by and upon her. Before accepting Arawn as her consort, she had ruled Prydain for a long age with an iron fist, without mercy and brooking no rivals. 

Arawn had fooled her, as she had so often fooled others. Her infatuation with him was such that she had given him everything; most of her power, even her love. He had taken it all willingly, and then he betrayed her. He had cast her out finally, but kept her as a useful tool, installing her in ancient Spiral Castle, and ordering her to find the sword Dyrnwyn, which legend maintained was buried there. She had failed—and Gwydion surmised that the sword itself had decided on the time of its rediscovery, and by whom. 

That was not all he knew of Achren, however. Buried in his own past, long ago—and for the most part he did not allow it to rise to the surface of his memory—he had known her. He had been captured by her then also...he had been younger, less experienced in the ways of the world. Still, he was well informed and had known of Achren for most of his life: what she was, who she had been, and what she was capable of. There was no excuse. 

On that occasion too, she had brought him back to Spiral Castle, and had healed his injuries. Then however, she had revealed a side of herself that perhaps no man but Arawn had never seen. A side that was still cunning and manipulative, but also deeply alluring…fiercely and wildly passionate at times, and at other times—for brief moments— reluctantly tender, even slightly vulnerable. A side he had been unable to resist. 

In his mind she stood before him, eyes on fire and dressed only in a treasure trove of jewels, that did nothing to hide her stunning beauty and the delicious, delicate delights of her body. His hands had ached to explore those delights; his lips had thirsted to taste them…and both had been satisfied. For once in his life, he had not tried to deny his own humanity.

For a short time, before realizing his own folly.

He had tarried there too long. Such was her enchantment that time seemed to move slowly; what he had thought was only a few weeks he later learned was almost two months. For a while, he had thought perhaps he could save her, change her, show her other ways, by which her intelligence and talents would also be rewarded, only this time for the good of Prydain. In the end, when he felt that was not possible; that he could not save her from the darkness that consumed and enveloped her, he made ready to leave. 

In return she coldly said that he was nothing to her; that he was forgotten. 

Gwydion knew that Eilonwy’s kidnapping had occurred long after he had first met Achren, but still he felt twinges of guilt. Could he have sensed it, and possibly prevented it? He knew that in truth he had no way of knowing Achren’s plans, and Angharad was only a young girl at the time. Still, he felt the guilt, as if he had failed Angharad in some way.

From all appearances at Spiral Castle, Achren had forgotten him indeed, although she could not quite keep up the charade before she threw him into the dungeon at Oeth-Anoeth. Underneath her fury after he spurned her offer of power, he thought he saw a trace of regret—that disappeared as soon as it surfaced.

Later he understood; he could not have survived except by her leave. She had tortured him in the worst ways imaginable; but allowed him to live, and in surviving he had learned much.

He shook his shaggy head, trying to clear the rush of memories and emotions from his mind. The past was gone; Achren was who she was, and what she had always been. As he was himself. He was a fool now, to think of her in any terms other than as his enemy.

* * *

As they rode on, he spoke further with Fflewddur about matters of great import to them both; including the antics and issues of the cantrevs and kings to the east of Caer Dathyl, those bordering on Fflewddur’s own Cantrev Dunoding and Caer Fflam. It was true that Fflewddur had an unusual way of life for a king, but Gwydion had known him since he was a boy. He trusted him, and felt a great deal of affection for him—as he had for his father.

After a few hours’ brisk ride through alternating meadows and forests, a long line of dense trees ahead signaled the approaching bank of the Avren. The companions picked through the dense underbrush to the river, and made their way single file down the slippery brown clay bank. Taran led, while Gwydion stayed in the rear to guard the north bank in case of surprise attack or any other trouble, and to ensure that the others crossed safely. The river was relatively calm, typical for this time of year which had a bit less rain, but as always it ran swift and cold. 

Gwydion watched Taran carefully, remembering their experience fording the great Avren from the other direction a few months before, on the trail of Hen Wen. Taran did not know how to swim, or had not at that time. This time however, he was less the boy and more the man. Taran clearly now had less fear of the water, but still wisely let Melynlas do the swimming for him. He rode him well—low over Melynlas’ neck, one hand firmly on the reins, the other clasping the front of the saddle. His practice fording the Ystrad had not been time wasted, Gwydion thought. After a few moments Melynlas was clambering up the southern bank, and Gwydion watched him with a measure of pride–and noticed the other companions and his own men were watching him in admiration as well. 

Gwydion looked forward to speaking with Dallben about Taran; and was even considering asking him to allow Taran to join the guard of Caer Dathyl when he was a little older, so he could keep a close eye on him, and have a hand in his education. Dallben might have other plans, but the idea was worth considering.

One by one, the riders crossed in turn, except for Gurgi who leaped down from his pony to hold Hen Wen in her litter as she crossed. She squealed a bit nervously when she was struck by the force of the cold water, but she stayed securely in place on her litter, with Gurgi’s gentle help. Finally, Gwydion followed suit with Melyngar. After he had crossed, for a moment they all stood together on the bank, streaming water and shivering in the shade of the trees. The sun was out and shining brightly however; and soon spirits rose again. Finally Taran let out an uncontainable whoop of joy and turned Melynlas southward toward home at a gallop. The others grinned and followed him, keeping pace as best they could with the swift stallion.

By early afternoon, the thatched roofs and whitewashed cottages of Caer Dallben were in sight. Low stone walls meandered through well-tended fields lined with green rows, and verdant trees with tiny red dots visible among the green even from this distance, filled the orchard.

Taran stayed in the lead, followed closely by Eilonwy, her colorful mane flying behind her like a banner as she cantered swiftly on her steed, and close after by Fflewddur, Doli and Gurgi. Soon they were in the midst of the buildings. 

Gwydion stayed back, and watched with affection and amusement as Coll emerged from a doorway and roared his approval with enthusiasm, first hugging Taran as if he would squeeze the life out of him, and then introducing himself to Eilonwy next. Soon Coll had shaken hands and learned the names of the other companions, and he looked over to Gwydion, still in the saddle, with a grin and a wink, his bald pate glowing with what could only be boundless happiness and gratitude.

Dallben himself emerged from another cottage, and looked at Taran with the closest thing to joy and relief on his face that Gwydion had ever seen. He looked over to Gwydion with his own nod of gratitude, and Gwydion dismounted and bowed deeply to the old enchanter. 

Gwydion knew him well, and had for many years. He respected him as much as High King Math himself, and both were invaluable counselors to him. In some ways, even more than his own High King and the cantrev kings of Prydain that owed him allegiance, Dallben was his most important ally. Dallben brought to the table not an army of men— with an often unwelcome and distracting basket of egos and political intrigue usually mixed in—but instead a cornucopia of pure wisdom and knowledge; insight where Gwydion’s own sometimes failed; and practicality, unencumbered by personal ambition. Dallben had all he needed on this simple farm; he wanted no more, except—like Gwydion—to protect the land of Prydain and bring down its enemies.

Soon Dallben had settled his features down again into the placid and implacable mask that he normally showed to the world. 

“Welcome All,” the old enchanter said, “Please make yourselves at home, and help yourselves to what Coll has prepared for you.” 

Soon the whole entourage was feasting on the bounty of Coll’s harvest, which was plentiful and delicious. Dallben himself sat at the head of the table, and Gwydion had never seen him as loquacious and approachable as he was for a few hours on this afternoon. With him such moods never lasted for long, however— and after a time he silently rose, and with a nod to his guests, headed back to his own chamber. 

* * *

After some delightful discussion with Coll, Taran, Fflewddur and Eilonwy on the merits of the various representatives of Coll’s vegetable crop, his roasted venison, the excellence of his bread, and the many wonderful qualities of his ale, Gwydion himself rose.

“I must see to Melyngar and my men, and I look forward to seeing you all again this evening,” he said with a smile. 

On the way to the stable he noticed Dallben’s chamber lamp was out, and he assumed it was time for the enchanter’s afternoon meditation. In the barn he did tend to his steed, giving her a much needed curry and a brush, cleaning her hooves from the dust, gravel and tar of the road, and offering soothing words that he saved only for her. The horse responded in her own way, her velvety nose, lips and breath often gently brushing his arms or the back of his neck as he tended to her.

After some time, he glanced over and noticed that Dallben’s lamp was now lit, and he could see the old man hunched over his table, quill in hand. Observing that his soldiers were settled into their own camp at the edge of the field and enjoying Coll’s culinary delights, which also included the delicious and potent brown ale, he turned and headed toward Dallben’s chamber. He had much to discuss with him, and he strode over across the courtyard, as laughter from Fflewddur, Doli and Coll still wafted from the long room. He saw Taran and Eilonwy, walking hand in hand across the fields toward the apple orchard.

As he approached the door, it opened and Dallben appeared, saving him the trouble of knocking. The old man looked not at all surprised, as if Gwydion had arrived precisely at the appointed time. He motioned toward a comfortable chair that had been drawn up to the table; a wooden bench was pushed snugly under the window. Dallben settled himself on the other side of the table in a chair that looked accustomed to the enchanter’s frame and weight. Between them was a smattering of oddments, scrolls, bits of weapons and armor, and one rather large tome in which Dallben had been writing, which Gwydion wisely avoided touching.

“And, erm,” the enchanter began, clearing his throat, “The journey here… it was—?”

“Swift, and unhindered—as far as most of our company knows.” Gwydion answered.

Dallben looked at him with probing eyes. “Of course it was,” he agreed. 

“…and for most it should stay that way.”

Gwydion had no doubt that Dallben knew the details as well as he did himself, and probably many of them better. It always made him slightly uneasy, as something similar had happened on other occasions—Gwydion had made the trip to Caer Dallben many times. However, he knew enough not to let his uneasiness deter him from the conversation ahead. Words had to be spoken, and questions asked, even if many of the answers were already known. 

Gwydion looked at the old man with his own direct and piercing gaze. “It is probably a pointless question, but did you know? Everything that would befall me, Taran and the others? Did you know Achren would capture us…and what would happen to me in Oeth-Anoeth? That Taran would be captured…and escape? Do you already know all that I came to tell you?”

Dallben glanced down at _The Book of Three_ for an instant. “As you know, I have certain skills, and I have _The Book of Three_. Much is revealed to me…but generally not in great detail. I am not a god…” – and he looked at Gwydion pointedly— “…nor am I even remotely related to one. I may have a broad picture, but in the end we all must write our own stories.

“In your case, I knew that you would seek Hen Wen, that you would not find her, and that she would be lost for a time. Yes, I knew that your path would cross with that of Achren, and that you would suffer—but that you would probably survive. If you did, you would emerge with new knowledge and power that could be used against our enemies. 

“Also perhaps, as improbable as it all seems, this was the _only_ possible path that ended with the defeat of the Horned King, and Arawn…at least for now. If things had not happened just as they did, the Horned King would have been successful, Caer Dathyl would be destroyed, and Arawn would now rule Prydain.”

The old man spread his hands on the book. “Of other details, some you already know. Taran had to be allowed to take the path he took—even though it put him at great risk. It took all my powers of persuasion to convince Coll not to go after him…and I even had a difficult time convincing myself. I am not quite the uncaring old fossil that I am often taken for.

“Beyond that, I am still very much in need of your knowledge. I have questions for you, as well as you for me.”

“So ask them, and I will ask mine.”

“Tell me about Oeth-Anoeth. How did you survive, when no one has before?”

Gwydion winced involuntarily, his mind flashing back to untold days of pure agony, before his countenance hardened. “I’m not quite sure. Perhaps I had help. Achren’s mind and spirit—as much as she could leave of it—lives within those walls…to keep something away from Arawn. In her own way, she aided me.”

Dallben looked at him knowingly. “She is not quite as unfeeling as her reputation, perhaps?”

Gwydion internally started at this, a bit uncomfortably. Did Dallben truly know everything about his past—even the mistakes he had made long ago, as a much younger man—before he had ever met Dallben? Was even this sorry history written in Dallben’s mysterious tome? 

He decided to just assume Dallben knew everything; it was usually the wisest course.

“Possibly. Primarily though, I believe she sees me as a weapon against Arawn—she holds more hatred for him than any of us. She may see the knowledge and insight I gained by surviving as an increase in the value of that weapon. I was on the brink of being broken, but the knowledge of her pain, how Arawn used her, denigrated her, tortured her…her pain distracted me from my own. I would even have aided her if I could…perhaps having some purpose in that blackness is how I survived. Then, suddenly, much was revealed to me. Light in the darkness, knowledge as infinite as the cosmos…and hope.”

He looked again at Dallben, his green flecked eyes flashing both with inborn and newly discovered power.

“I saw Taran…and I saw Eilonwy. Perhaps as you have seen them…in the pages of _The Book of Three_.”

Dallben glanced down at the enormous volume, where he was still resting his hands. “You already know that it may as well be called “The Book of _If_.” So many things have to fall into place, so many dangers have to be faced…and then there is the question of their own free will. Nothing, not even _The Book of Three_ , can understand everything that goes on in a young heart. These pages are constantly re-writing themselves…but yes, I have some knowledge, and hope—and that is what sustains me.”

“There are perhaps things that you are not yet aware of,” Gwydion said.

He reached in his jacket, and pulled from it a tile attached to a cord, and threw it on the table. It was partly stained with blood.

Dallben looked at the likeness painted upon it, and for a moment his face grew grimmer, and his translucent skin, barely stretched over the web of blue veins underneath, even paler.

“Only my trusted men, and Doli the Dwarf know of this, and they will not speak of it. Huntsmen of Annuvin, but clearly working in concert with Achren.” 

Dallben stood and paced for a moment around the untidy chamber, his old feet long accustomed to choosing a path free of the strange assortment of curiosities that both adorned and littered it.

“She is safe here for now, as you know,” Dallben said. “She can grow in wisdom and knowledge, and enjoy being a young woman for a time. I can even help her understand and discover a bit more of her own heritage. However, she cannot hide here for long—she has too much of a part to play in the things to come.”

Dallben’s long bony fingers arched under his chin. “So Achren pursues Eilonwy again, and Arawn permitted her the use of his huntsmen. I have no doubt that she already knows Eilonwy is here. Although, she also knows she cannot touch Eilonwy while she is under my protection. So, she will bide her time, and devise her own schemes. 

“I have a feeling however, that this may have been her last chance, and she has failed him again—as she did with the loss of the sword. Her star is on the wane, and I sense so are her powers. She may now be fleeing Arawn’s wrath, and he is probably more concerned with exacting punishment on Achren than he is with Eilonwy.” 

“Probably, but Achren still must be located quickly,” Gwydion said, and then smiled grimly. “Both because of the threat she poses to Eilonwy, but also possibly for her own protection, as strange as that seems.”

“Very noble of you,” Dallben replied with just a small trace of sarcasm, “and there may be other practical reasons to protect Achren as well. Don’t forget that she knows Arawn better than anyone alive. If anyone could help in bringing about his defeat, it is Achren. Although I don’t hold out much hope for that possibility.”

“And as for Arawn,” Gwydion said, “I don’t know that he is terribly concerned about Eilonwy, there is no current reason for him to be. On the other hand, I feel that he is definitely aware of _me_ — since the fall of the Horned King, if not from the day I walked away from Oeth-Anoeth.”

“Don’t be modest. He was well aware of you long before that…but he is now doubly so—from the day you destroyed his champion, and even more from the day you started carrying _Dyrnwyn_.”

Gwydion glanced down at the sword that was now always girded to his side. Suddenly he stood, and drew it swiftly from its sheath. He felt its awesome power, the acrid smell of pure energy, and it glittered like a glorious white star in the early evening light. Gwydion’s men across the way from the cottage, still enjoying Coll’s ale, looked up in wonder at the beam of pure white light shining from the cottage window; although they were now familiar with the flame.

Gwydion laid the blade on the table; and to his surprise, Dallben stood, reached out his hand, grasped the hilt, and held it aloft. For a moment he was not an old man, and Gwydion could see him for what he truly was; a being of pure light, power and sheer force of will. Then he carefully laid the sword back down, and Gwydion picked up the sword and re-sheathed it. The room seemed empty and forlorn now, without the brilliance and splendor that had filled it. 

“What do you know of the sword?” Dallben asked as he sat back down.

“Only what the Chief Bard Taliesin can tell me,” Gwydion answered. “It is a weapon of great power and protection for Prydain, forged and tempered by Govannion the Lame long ago, at the request of King Rhydderch Hael. The flame is both a weapon and a safeguard—only the worthy can wield it, and the flame will destroy any other. Rhydderch’s son King Rhych carried it after him, and then his grandson King Rhitta—who was lord of Spiral Castle before Achren. 

“The legend is that he died with Dyrnwyn in his hands, in a manner unknown. Now, it is clear that it was buried with him in the secret chambers below the castle, until Eilonwy removed it.” 

“Interesting that the castle collapsed just after its removal,” Dallben mused, “and perhaps not unrelated.”

Gwydion nodded and went on. “The sword’s rediscovery has woken a fear in Arawn—that I have felt. Beyond that, the ultimate purpose of Dyrnwyn is still unknown to Taliesin or any of our wisest.”

“I have sensed Arawn’s fear also,” Dallben said. “He trembles at the thought that Dyrnwyn is again a force in the world. That fear may keep him at bay for a time, as he ponders and schemes and considers his next plan of action. Doubt always gnaws at him. He has lost his greatest War Leader, and that is due to you. He now fears a rediscovered weapon of great power, and through his servants that survived the battle, he knows that you carry it. If you were ever vigilant for your own safety, you must be doubly so now.”

“You will also be interested to know that Oeth-Anoeth is no more. It melted away and fell, not long after your escape. The countless souls imprisoned there are free at last, thanks to you.”

Gwydion briefly closed his eyes, remembering the tormented spirits that he had felt there, and how very nearly he had joined their ranks. Now at least, they were at rest.

“I was hoping you could tell me more of the history of the sword, and its purpose. Is it not part of the lore of _The Book of Three_?”

“Unfortunately—or perhaps by design—not much is revealed there,” Dallben said with a sigh. “Something in the essence of Dyrnwyn, perhaps its own origin and power, blinds the book to it,” Dallben said. “Now that I have held it, I am beginning to understand why. Just as _The Book of Three_ is part of the most ancient enchantments of this land, so is Dyrnwyn. It is possible that the power of both is from much the same source.”

Dallben paused a moment, and continued. “That source is also ultimately _my own_ source of enchantment. As I held the sword, I imagined its creation…and felt some kinship with its creator, and even sorrow for him.

“If I poured every ounce of enchantment that I have ever possessed into an object, I _might_ be able to create something close to Dyrnwyn. But even that would not be enough—there is even more power in its being...I do not yet understand the source, but it reminds me of the ancient enchantments of your own people. The combination is extremely powerful, and I can understand Arawn’s fear.”

Gwydion nodded. “I am not sure how all that is possible, but I have felt the same.”

“Guard it well,” Dallben said. “It may be a fulcrum around which everything pivots—all our hopes and plans.”

Gwydion paused for a moment, and then said, “So again, concerning Eilonwy…how long do you think can she remain here?

“Oh, I think at least a couple of years, as she is still very young,” Dallben replied thoughtfully. Then, I believe I shall be obliged to see more to her education as a young lady and a princess – and that should probably be with her last living relatives on Mona.”

Gwydion quickly replied, “I hope you mean, only if Achren has been found by then.”

“I do hope that is the case—and that she has also been rendered harmless,” Dallben said, “but I can only keep her here for so long. After all, she is a princess and I would not want to get on the wrong side of her relatives…even those without magical powers. 

“I do wonder how she stole the child from her mother…and what happened to Princess Angharad. The daughters of Llyr are not fools. Also, even with Llyr’s destruction, Angharad could have been—or could still be, perhaps—a powerful ally. You knew her well yourself; I believe. Do you have any other insight into where she might have gone?”

Dallben looked at him pointedly again, and Gwydion inwardly squirmed. He was the High Prince of Prydain, a war leader for most of his life. He commanded respect from almost everyone he knew. Dallben respected him too, he was well aware—but also, could somehow make him feel like an awkward boy of fifteen. 

“Yes, I did know her well…but no, I have no other insight into her disappearance. I do know she would never have rested until she found her child. Not unless she is dead.”

Dallben pursed his lips, appeared read to speak, and then was again silent for a moment before going on.

“In any case, Eilonwy, for now, is our responsibility. Her safety comes first of course, but her education is also critically important. Especially if things go…ahem…by the book.

“So Achren stole her once, and seeks to do so again,” Dallben mused, as much to himself as to Gwydion, “and she does nothing without a reason, or a plan. I have no doubt that plan involves a way to gain some advantage from Eilonwy’s heritage, as—possibly—the last enchantress of the House of Llyr.” 

The two men paused, and each considered his own thoughts for a few moments. 

“So, what are your current plans? Dallben queried after a time. “Back to Caer Dathyl, or is there another urgent mission afoot?”

“I will return to Caer Dathyl, but only briefly, Gwydion replied. “I have heard rumors that men have been going missing, without explanation, in cantrevs and commots all over Prydain. I suspect Arawn’s hand, but that needs to be confirmed. Whether it is his doing or not, it must be investigated.”

“I had hoped you might stay a little longer,” the old enchanter said, “and possibly we can speak further on these things,” as he stood to stretch his thin, bony legs. Now, I believe I need to have a few words with Taran. He has learned much—and grown much— on this adventure I think, and I am looking forward to taking his measure.”

Gwydion stood also, and for a moment the two clasped hands warmly. Many would see them as an odd pair, Gwydion thought. He, Prydain’s premier war leader and also a crown prince, and an old man of enormous intellect and power that no one fully understood, not even he…but he had always trusted him instinctively, and had never seen a reason not to.

“I had hoped also to speak with you about Taran,” Gwydion said. “I thought possibly he could return to Caer Dathyl soon, to serve as a page or within my guard…it would be as wise to see to his education as to that of the princess, would it not?”

“It would,” Dallben said, “and I certainly appreciate your sentiments and generosity…but my own feeling is that it is not yet that time, and other even more practical means of education might present themselves in the coming years. Also, if he were to appear in your court…it could seem strange, an assistant pig-keeper moved to such a relatively lofty position. As illogical as it may seem, sometimes trying to make something happen that you desire is exactly the wrong way to go about it—and I sense that this may be one of those times.”

“Very well, I would never gainsay your insight or your wisdom,” Gwydion smiled, “and I will see now to my men. I do hope to enjoy another delicious meal with you this evening, but we will not tarry and will be off in the morning. I’m sure Taran will have much to tell you, and will be more than pleased that the princess will be staying for an extended visit in Caer Dallben.”

“Yes, I’m sure he will be—and who can blame him,” Dallben yawned, and then winked before he spoke once again.

“…But somehow I must convince him it was _his_ idea.” 

* * *


	3. The Ranger

Gwydion shifted himself in the saddle as Melyngar plodded dutifully onward through the swirling snow. The beautiful white horse was as stealthy as her master, barely visible or audible in the twilight, the sounds of her hooves masked by the light evening wind and the soft sound of snowflakes meeting earth. Gwydion’s green-flecked eyes squinted through the storm in the growing darkness, and he pulled the hood close over his shaggy head. Shielding his eyes, he could see the Hills of Bran-Galedd to his left, as he followed the curve of the valley to the northwest. Far to the west and slightly south, at the very limit of his vision, the last of the day’s sun glinted red from the snow on the crest of Mount Dragon, the northern gate of Annuvin. Ahead of him, he could make out the spires of Caer Cynfael in the far distance, still miles away, barely visible in the falling snow. The high spires were magnificent, silhouetted against the sunset. 

The trail of trampled earth and snow he had followed for days meandered to his left closer to the hills, but the fortress was his destination now. 

He wondered how Morgant would receive him—although he was the High Prince of the land, he sometimes felt like a beggar, appearing at some king’s stronghold, asking for support—and never having as much to offer in return as he would like.

The last five months had passed swiftly. After leaving Caer Dallben in the late summer, Gwydion and his men had returned directly to Caer Dathyl. 

Upon his return, he had sent scouts to every corner of Prydain; searching for signs of Achren, and where she might be hiding. So far, she seemed to have disappeared from the earth, and he wondered if she had abandoned Prydain altogether. It disquieted him much more; not knowing where she was, than when he was aware of her presence at Spiral Castle, as he had been for the past score of years or more…since his time with her. During those years, in his weaker moments, when his journeys brought him close to Spiral Castle for one reason or another…he had thought more than once of paying her a visit, in spite of the terrible way they had parted, like a crystal mirror suddenly shattered. Always though, he had resisted that temptation.

Based on the rumors of disappearances that had reached his ears before he had departed for Caer Dallben, he had also sent scouts to comb Prydain for news of more such occurrences, or any obvious movements of the enemy. Some of the scouts had returned to give him information on men that had vanished in the northeast limits of Pryderi’s realm, not far from Caer Dathyl. In almost every case, it was able bodied men in their prime that would disappear without a trace; usually leaving distraught and grieving wives and children, with no one to provide for them except family and friends—if they were fortunate. 

Gwydion of course suspected the hand of Arawn, but he was not sure of the fate of the men. Were they captured, to be forced into the servitude of Arawn’s mortal army—and so might possibly be rescued? Were those with the proper natural aptitudes of bloodlust and cruelty branded and forever sworn into the ranks of the Huntsmen of Annuvin? Or was their fate even worse? The third possibility was perhaps the most disquieting of all, and Gwydion had prayed it was not so.

From the reports of his scouts, it seemed that the disappearances were striking further eastward, along the northern coast of Prydain; and this news was particularly alarming. There were secrets of the Children of Don hidden there, near the mouth of the river Kynvael. Gwydion had formed some plans— and had conferred with High King Math, Chief Bard Taliesin, and other trusted advisors. However, there were also many unwelcome but necessary duties to be performed—affairs of State, official visits, and all the other myriad requirements of his station—and those duties dragged on and consumed a few months. 

Finally, he and a force of some fifty of his most trusted warriors had set out north two weeks ago, through the Kynvael valley. 

In a few days’ time they were close to the river mouth. Sure enough, they were soon approached by villagers in the area, who brought fresh reports of disappearances of their neighbors and fellow villagers just to the west. 

Gwydion and his war band had turned westward from the river mouth, and within a few hours, ran headlong into a band of around eighty of Arawn’s mortal warriors. Gwydion’s men were strong, skilled and well trained, but the battle had been fierce. A score and five of Arawn’s men were slain before the enemy band fled to the southwest, and sadly, he had lost eight of his own warriors. 

It was strange that as the enemy force had fled, they had picked up their own dead and strapped them across the backs of the large number of pack horses they had brought with them, two bodies to a horse. Gwydion had never seen such unusual behavior in warfare. There were many other bodies already being carried—the bodies, he suspected, of men who had gone missing. The fifty or more remaining warriors, all mounted, were leading some thirty loaded pack horses, and there were spare horses as well. 

Normally Gwydion would have had his dead buried with field ceremonies and honors after a battle, as was the standard custom. But his sharp eyes had noticed that two enemy scouts remained, high on a hill a good distance away, observing he and his war band. On this occasion, he decided differently. 

“Gather wood,” he had said. “We will burn the bodies.”

One of the dead was Captain Colwyn; recently promoted by Gwydion—in part for his bravery against the band of huntsmen on the road to Caer Dallben, six months before. Gwydion paused and momentarily put a hand on his shoulder, and then turned and nodded to the torchman to light the pyre. 

After he had said words in tribute to all the fallen, he recited an ancient lament of the Children of Don, as his company listened in respectful silence. As he chanted, in the far distance he observed the enemy scouts withdrawing to the southwest, to join their main force.

* * *

Gwydion had left Captain Gwaednerth in charge of the remaining war band, with orders to defend the mouth of the Kynvael at all costs from any other possible hostile forces in the area. He set out alone on the trail of the force from Annuvin, with only a vague plan in mind. From a distance, he observed them daily. They moved with haste on forced marches through the northern hills, and in only a few days’ time, entered Cantrev Madoc.

It was well after dark when Gwydion finally ascended the long winding path to the massive gates of Caer Cynfael. It was an impressive fortress to be sure, second only in Prydain to Caer Dathyl itself—outside of the fortress of Annuvin, which he had seen only from a distance; and he could only guess at what kind of grandeur would appeal to Arawn.

As he arrived at the gate, a guard far above called out, “Who calls at the Fortress of Madoc, at this late hour?”

Just a beggar at the door, he thought.

“Prince Gwydion, Son of Don. I would speak with your king immediately.”

After only a few moments, the gate creaked open, and the Chief Steward appeared. “Right this way, your Highness,” he said, showing no surprise at the lone, worn warrior appearing at the gate—Gwydion had arrived in a similar manner before. A hostler appeared to lead Melyngar toward the great stables, and the steward accompanied Gwydion through the labyrinth of a fortress inward toward the Great Hall. Caer Cynfael was a small city in itself; filled with servants, workshops, and merchants of various sorts. Wide eyed noblemen and ladies of the court, out for an evening’s repast or shopping, quickly bowed or curtsied once the High Prince of Prydain was recognized. He and the steward strode onward, with only a brief nod from Gwydion in acknowledgement. Everywhere was evidence of wealth and opulence. Gwydion had never quite understood how the House of Madoc had come to be so rich; it had been so since before the time of the Children of Don in Prydain. They had ever prospered, even on the very northern doorstep of Annuvin. Some assumed it was through arrangement and trade with the Lord of Annuvin himself, and perhaps in the past, that had been so. Gwydion knew one thing for certain however—Morgant was no friend of Arawn.

It was a long walk to the end of the Great Hall, under a lofty ceiling draped with the colors and banners of the House of Madoc. Gwydion moved with the stride of one long accustomed to covering huge expanses of wilderness in a short time, the portly steward struggling to keep up. At the end of the Hall, on a high dais was King Morgant, seated alone, but flanked by formidable warriors on each side of the platform. The tall king wore his usual rich, dark raiment; his golden crown on his brow, his keen, hooded falcon-like eyes watching Gwydion as he approached. 

“My lord—Prince Gwydion, Son of Gwynuther, Son of Mathonwy, Son of Don—requires an audience,” announced the steward, and could not resist the opportunity to say his own King’s full title. “My lord Gwydion, may I present King Morgant, Son of Mabsant, Son of Madoc.”

Morgant moved lithely with a warrior’s practiced grace, stepped quickly from the dais, and bowed slightly before offering both hands. “My Lord, as is your custom, you arrive alone and unexpected.” He said with his usual half smile, showing only the tips of his sharp white teeth. 

Gwydion clasped his hands and smiled, tamping down a surge of embarrassment and anger. It was his right to arrive however he chose, after all.

“Yes, my friend. I apologize for the abruptness of my arrival, but I am pressed…and as you might expect, in need of your immediate support.”

Morgant nodded, “And as always, my lord, you will have it. Please join me for my evening repast, and we will discuss it.”

Gwydion’s discomfort passed as the two were seated at Morgant’s table. Servants brought plates of delicious and elegant courses, and waited nearby to provide for their every need. Not even the cuisine at Caer Dathyl could compare to what Morgant had to offer. Gwydion ate and drank gratefully, as the two men spoke. 

“I am on the trail of a war band of Annuvin, that I have pursued from the Kynvael valley,” Gwydion began, and he proceeded to tell Morgant of the rumors that had sent him northward, the battle, and of his ongoing pursuit. 

“So, you believe Arawn is sending these bands to gather the bodies of able-bodied men to swell the ranks of his deathless host,” Morgant said quite directly, although Gwydion had somewhat skirted the subject. Gwydion nodded in agreement. “Yes, and this band I mean to stop before they reach Annuvin. My own men I left to guard the mouth of the Kynvael, for reasons that you know.” Gwydion smiled grimly. “I knew if I were lucky enough to have the pursuit proceed through your realm, I could rely on you, as I have done so often in the past.”

Morgant’s dark eyes glinted in the torchlight. Indeed, Gwydion was much in his debt. In battle, Morgant’s army had once saved his entire force from annihilation…and on another occasion, Morgant had saved his life directly. It was common knowledge, and had become the stories of legend and the songs of bards. 

The first time had been during a war fomented by Arawn some fifteen years ago. Arawn was ever careful to not waste his own resources, although he had them in abundance. It was much easier to incite other cantrevs against the Children of Don, using a combination of weapons: Patriotic pride, by painting the Children of Don as outsiders and usurpers; greed, through direct bribery of targeted cantrev kings; or fear, by threats both physical and magical. In addition to direct destruction, Arawn could, if he chose, bring a lethal arsenal of dark enchantment to bear against any king or queen that opposed him. 

Using a combination of these three weapons, Arawn had assembled a confederation of cantrevs from all areas of Prydain, strategically chosen to wreak the most havoc and spread out the forces of the Children of Don to the maximum extent possible. Gwydion, a younger and much less experienced war leader at the time, had raised a host that included Morgant, Smoit, Pryderi and many others. Although outnumbered, he had proven himself Arawn’s equal in planning and strategy, and it was this war that established his reputation as the finest war leader in Prydain. Battles had occurred in many areas and on many fronts, and the war left open wounds to Prydain itself that continued to fester for years afterward. Many warriors, villagers and noblemen were killed in the ruthless conflict, including King Godo of Caer Fflam, and his three eldest sons. That war, Gwydion now knew, had also resulted in Taran’s orphanage. Arawn’s malignant campaign against Llyr during that same time had helped bring about its downfall—and a few years later, Eilonwy’s apparent orphanage, as well.

In a battle so bloody it extended the foul blight of the Red Fallows for miles, Arawn’s forces were turned and retreated to Annuvin, so diminished that it was years before they regained their previous strength. Morgant’s army covered a huge distance in just a day from the scene of their last conflict in Madoc, and turned the tide of the battle—saving Gwydion and the rest of the host from complete destruction. Unfortunately however, it was not before a third of Gwydion’s host was killed. Coll son of Collfrewr had also answered his call for warriors and fought valiantly there, and had been seriously wounded.

The second time had occurred five years ago, when Caer Dathyl had intervened in a conflict between the southern cantrevs Mawr and Dau Gleddyn—both of which had joined the host of the Horned King this last summer. On this occasion, the king of Mawr, goaded by Arawn, tried to swallow up his smaller neighbor—part of Arawn’s goal to turn both cantrevs into satellites of Annuvin. Gwydion had brought a host from Caer Dathyl to prevent this, even the bards Taliesin and his son Adaon had ridden with him. Unfortunately, half of his own forces had fallen ill with a terrible illness that plagued all of Prydain at the time. Morgant had once again answered his call for aid, as had Smoit and a young King Fflewddur, at the head of a small band of stouthearted warriors from Caer Fflam.

During the final battle of that conflict, Gwydion had been cut off, surrounded and wounded. Only a brave—even foolhardy—charge through enemy ranks by King Morgant and his personal guard had prevented him from being cut down. Morgant himself had been seriously wounded in the charge, but he and his men fought their way through fearlessly, with astounding skill and valor, and brought Gwydion to safety. 

* * *

For a few minutes, the two men spoke of the second and smaller war, and its aftermath.

“I pleaded with you, my Lord, after that battle, to hang the bodies of those worthless traitors from the walls of Caer Dathyl,” Morgant said with his half smile. “It would have prevented you much hardship this past summer. Even now, after their latest treachery, you have not done so. At times, I do not understand why my advice is so hard for you to accept.” 

As Morgant had more than earned the right, Gwydion would accept more rebuke from him than possibly anyone else in Prydain. “The former King of Mawr will be a guest in the dungeon of Caer Dathyl for fourteen more years,” he smiled, “…or longer, if there is any more trouble from the cantrev. He chose that to banishment for life. His son, who unfortunately followed his example, died in the battle of Caer Dathyl last summer…so his punishment has already been exacted. His sister has sworn her oath to me, I accepted it and she seems much more reasonable—and intelligent—than either of her two predecessors on the throne. Perhaps you are right of course…but as you know, punishing crime with death, if it can be avoided, is not my way, and it is not the way of my people. Taking that path, we often create two enemies, where before there was one. I am always hopeful for the best in men—or women—and the heart of anyone can change.

“That said, your advice is always appreciated. Never think that I am ungrateful for the wisdom of your counsel.”

Morgant nodded in acknowledgement. “So, to the business at hand. How many men do you need for the pursuit of Arawn’s war band?” 

“They number more than fifty, so I think a force of one hundred would ensure a quick victory, and spare the lives of your own men. “

Morgant hesitated for a moment. “It is a large number to gather on short notice, my Prince. However, I will do my best to accommodate.”

“It is most appreciated. How soon can your men be ready? We should leave within a few hours, to track them down before dawn. Soon after that, they will be well into the hills.”

Morgant stood. “There is no time to waste then. Let me speak with my war leader to see to the mustering of the force. I will return shortly.”

Gwydion nodded. “Thank you again, old friend. I know it is no small favor that I ask of you.”

Morgant bowed courteously, and strode swiftly from the Great Hall. In only a few minutes, he returned. “Maelmadog is summoning men now—but the hour is late, and it will take some time. Please, rest yourself for a little while longer, and enjoy some ale while we wait. I am anxious to hear more of what befell you last summer—whatever you are inclined to tell me.”

Servants filled their glasses, and for a time, the two men spoke freely. Gwydion told him of his quest for Hen Wen, and of Taran of Caer Dallben and his own quest. He was careful to be guarded in his words, and did not mention what he knew of him from Dallben, and from his own visions. Still, it was difficult not to convey his pride in him, and his affection. He spoke briefly of Eilonwy; her parentage, and how she had grown up as a captive of Achren in Spiral Castle. He told Morgant that Achren had tried to tempt him the Throne of Annuvin—and how he had responded. Of Oeth-Anoeth; he told him what little he could bear to speak of, and how he was able to overcome the Horned King. 

“The Throne of Annuvin,” Morgant mused, half in jest. “Perhaps you should have taken the offer. I can only imagine a Son of Don sitting there...just think of the power you could have wielded, as King of Annuvin and Heir Apparent to Caer Dathyl. Prydain would be at complete peace at last.”

“Nay, I would have become as corrupt as anyone who has ever ruled there,” Gwydion said with a grim smile—although he was somewhat surprised at the suggestion from Morgant, even as a joke. “No, we must find a way to overcome our enemies without abandoning our honor…and becoming our own enemy.”

Morgant listened intently to Gwydion’s account, and with great interest. He offered intelligent insight at every turning point; on every decision. After he had spoken, Gwydion thought that perhaps he had revealed too much. Normally he was very taciturn, but there were so few men in Prydain that he felt could share his thoughts and burdens with, besides Dallben and High King Math himself. Morgant was one of the few that he felt was truly his equal—not in a prideful way, but in intellect and depth of understanding. They were both solitary men for the most part, for one reason or another. Like himself, Morgant had never married. Perhaps, he thought, their friendship was based on their similarities, and similar senses of responsibility. 

Or perhaps, loneliness shared was better than loneliness alone.

Morgant had demonstrated his loyalty multiple times and in the noblest way possible, Gwydion reminded himself, chiding the faint warning that whispered in his head, begging him to limit his words. Morgant was a proven and stalwart comrade…there was nothing to fear. 

“Ah, Achren,” Morgant said. “She is not what she was. Still though, not one to be trifled with.”

“I will ask you, as I ask everyone—have you heard any current information on her whereabouts, if even just a rumor? There has been no sign since I saw her at Oeth-Anoeth… I still fear her, and the damage she could do. “ 

“I have not,” Morgant replied. “So sad, she who once ruled Prydain, now apparently on the run and in hiding. As evil as she was, she was one that understood the use of power—and in some ways, Prydain was more at peace under her rule.”

Again, Gwydion ignored the insult—most in his position, he knew, would take offense at the implication that the rule of the Sons of Don could compare in any way to the cruel and iron fisted rule of Achren—he did not delude himself on this point; it was the history, and the truth about her reign.

In Morgant’s case, he allowed him much leeway to speak his mind—he was only speaking what he felt to be true, from his point of view. 

Gwydion was lost in his own thoughts for a few moments. He wondered again, where Achren might be hiding. At first, after he had escaped Oeth-Anoeth, he had thought she might be dead; killed by Arawn perhaps for allowing Dyrnwyn to slip through her fingers, or for not killing him outright. After the battle with the huntsmen on the road to Caer Dallben, it had become clear that she lived, and had been granted at least one last chance by Arawn. As he had discussed with Dallben, when that plot failed, Arawn had been infuriated—and Achren likely had gone into hiding to escape his wrath. Where would she go, he wondered? First, he thought, to those whom owed her favors, whoever that might be…and there might be many, as she had ruled Prydain for a long age. If that failed, she might flee Prydain altogether…but only as a last resort, since she would have limited influence and power beyond its borders. 

If she were alive, she would continue stalking Eilonwy; of that he and Dallben were certain. Eilonwy contained latent power; power that she craved. She dreamed of ruling Prydain again, as she had for so long. He had heard this from her, and felt it from her, this past year. She had said it directly, as she tried to tempt him, and he could see the self-righteous fury—and the pain— in her eyes. 

Finally, he addressed Morgant again. “In regard to Arawn…this current campaign makes it very clear that he now plans to go to great lengths to expand the size of his deathless host. He has lost in battle to us with mortal warriors on more than one occasion, and fears it would happen again. He still values the intelligence and capabilities of the living; although they probably join the ranks of the Cauldron-Born as they perish. He needs to expand his deathless army by thousands to overcome us completely…so now he will murder able-bodied men, or despoil their barrows, to feed them to the cauldron. Every such raid will expand his power, and weaken our own. I can and will resist these raids…but a more permanent solution is required, before we are indeed overrun. We must make plans soon—to take the Cauldron itself, and destroy it. I know the strength of Madoc will be required, my friend, in addition to many others. Still, I would rather rely on stealth than force of arms. 

“We will speak again of this soon. Only now, after this trek, have I made this decision, now that we can see Arawn’s design beyond a doubt…but I have made no solid plans as of yet.”

Morgant was a man who was quite difficult to surprise, and this time was no different. “I wondered myself when you would arrive at this plan, my Prince. Indeed it is bold, but an attack on Annuvin itself will not come without great cost. Is there no other way, no incantation of Dallben perhaps, that could destroy this evil thing? I have always heard that Dallben’s powers of enchantment were the greatest in Prydain—perhaps even greater than Arawn’s.”

“The cauldron is not the work of Arawn,” Gwydion said, again silencing the small internal voice of warning. Belin, must he trust no one to satisfy his conscience? “Its enchantment is much older…and apparently comes from the three sisters that are eldest in Prydain…and live somewhere in the depths of the Marshes of Morva.”

Ah,” Morgant said. “Always willing to trade are the Three, or so I have heard. I do wonder what Arawn had to trade for it.”

“I’m sure it was substantial,” Gwydion said, “Perhaps his soul itself, as he had no other use for it. Our concern though, is only with its destruction—but that is a plan for another day. Today, I wish to stop this band, and free the remains of those good men of Prydain that they carry from this horrible and unending bondage.”

Maelmadog, Morgant’s War Leader, arrived at the table. He was a man as strong and stout as a walrus, with a mustache to match. “My lords, the men are ready…but my king, we have also just received word from our scouts that another band of armed men, perhaps from Annuvin, approaches Madoc from the Southeast and the Red Fallows.” 

Morgant stood. “The timing is impeccable; surely meant to distract us from Lord Gwydion’s mission.” 

Morgant and Maelmadog spoke quietly to each other for a few minutes, before Morgant turned to Gwydion. 

“My Prince, I apologize, but I cannot spare the one hundred until this crisis is past. My own army is scattered; many are on leave at this moment, and it appears we cannot leave Caer Cynfael unguarded. I must remain here, and will gather more men as quickly as possible. For now, I hope fifty will suffice for your quest, with yourself and Maelmadog to lead them. These men are well trained; the mortal warriors of Arawn will be no match for them. They will be ready in half an hour outside the main gate, and Melyngar has been well fed and watered, and restocked with provisions. Please forgive me for being unable to provide more for your mission at the moment.”

Gwydion nodded. “You are more than generous; I can ask no more. We will return as quickly as possible to help see to the defense of Caer Cynfael, if necessary.”

* * *

Within the hour, now in the small hours of the morning, the force of fifty had departed the castle. The snow had dissipated, and the moon shone coldly on the frozen white hills as the horsemen retraced Gwydion’s path, and headed southeast to pick up the trail of the Annuvin war band. As promised, Morgant’s soldiers were a fine and competent group; well-armed, well mounted and clearly well trained. It was not long before they intercepted the tracks, making their way southwest into the Hills. Gwydion hoped they would have made camp for the night not long after he had left their trail, and perhaps the current force could overtake them before they broke camp, or very soon after. 

Within another hour, the riders came upon the remains of the enemy camp; a trampled area in the snow with the remains of a fire, still smoldering. The band had clearly stopped relatively early the evening before, and broke camp again shortly after midnight. The pursuers continued on.

It was not long before the tracks deviated sharply to the west, no longer following the most direct route back to Annuvin. Maelmadog pulled his mount close to Melyngar. 

“Lord Gwydion. One of the last villages of Madoc lies in that direction. A village of around a hundred.” 

“Let us ride quickly,” Gwydion said, picturing in his mind more dead fathers and sons, more widows and destitute families. The horsemen followed his lead, pushing their mounts as hard as they could in the six inches of snow. The snow had now stopped completely, and the waning moon provided some light, illuminating the white hills with patches of forest. 

When they crossed the next rise, flames were visible; clearly the band of Annuvin had put the village to the torch. “Ride now!”, Gwydion cried, and he and the men raced toward the village at full gallop. Soon screams were heard, and the metallic clash of weapons. The men of the village were fighting valiantly against the invaders, who now turned in amazement at the sound of the thundering hooves approaching. As Gwydion and the horsemen of Madoc closed the last half mile, a horn sounding retreat was already heard, and the men of Annuvin were remounting their horses and fleeing at full speed to the south.

“Maelmadog—take twenty of your men into the village and ensure it is clear. The rest will ride with me after the invaders.” Maelmadog nodded and shouted to his men, and soon the force had split, with Gwydion leading thirty toward the enemy stragglers as they headed south.

Gwydion’s force overtook fifteen of the slower riders quickly, who turned to give battle. Dyrnwyn was out and flaming, and his companions unsheathed their own blades with exultant shouts. In five minutes, all fifteen were lifeless in the snow, but three of the men of Madoc had also fallen. 

The other warriors of Annuvin had far outpaced them, the sounds of their hooves now fading in the distant hills.

From the north, Maelmadog and his men again approached. “Lord Gwydion, the village is secure,” he said, “although five men were slain and taken…but my Lord, another rider arrived from Caer Cynfael. The force of the enemy approaching the fortress is much larger than original reports; apparently warriors and huntsmen of Annuvin, and possibly accompanied by Cauldron-Born. Our king has summoned us back for the defense, and sends you his deepest apologies and regrets.”

Gwydion nodded, although his heart sank. “Morgant is quite right, and I trust that you and he will repel this attack handily. I will continue my pursuit of the war band, although to what end now, I do not know. They carry the bodies of many men, that will kill many more of the living in Arawn’s cycle of death. I do not know how I can stop them, but I feel I must try. Perhaps something will present itself.”

“It is a noble quest, and I regret that we cannot aid you more,” Maelmadog said, “but for now, we must withdraw. My lord, please keep yourself safe, and I wish you good fortune.” 

“I wish you the same. Go now, and defend your king and your home. I will return as soon as possible.”

Maelmadog turned his mount as he saluted, and he and his men departed back toward Caer Cynfael.

* * *

Gwydion tracked the band of Annuvin further into the morning hours, both he and Melyngar fighting their weariness. Finally, the band stopped and made camp out of the wind, in a small valley. A stream meandered through, where they could water their horses and themselves, and their actions left no doubt that they considered themselves safe from further pursuit. The cadavers they carried were unloaded from the horses to rest them, and unceremoniously placed in a great pile in the middle of the valley—now as many as seventy-five, Gwydion estimated.

He made his own small camp on a hilltop where he could continue to observe them, and decided he must get a few hours of sleep before resuming his vigil. He was no longer at his best, he knew, and the back of his mind was questioning his actions. He did not know how much further it would be practical to track them; it seemed a fool’s errand at this point. He was only one man against some forty that were left. He despised the notion that Arawn would be enriched by these evil spoils, but events seemed to have left him powerless to stop it from happening. Exhaustion finally overcame him, and he slept at last.

The sound of nervous whickers from Melyngar brought him wide awake an hour later; perhaps two hours before dawn. Gwydion reached for his sword, and stood rapidly, but he did not unsheathe the blade. Around him in in the dim light, he saw the silhouettes of some twenty warriors; half with blades drawn, and half with bows at the ready. He was captured, but resolved to sell his life dearly. He feared most the loss of Dyrnwyn to Arawn; more than he feared losing his own life, and he cursed himself a fool.

The warriors stood watching him for a moment, but made no move to disarm him. They maintained a respectful distance, although arrows could leap out at him at any second. Finally, their leader spoke. “Mount your horse, we have orders to take you to Captain Aeron,” he said. 

A few moments later, Gwydion and Melyngar were walking slowly down the hillside toward the camp, surround by the warriors with their bows and blades held ready. He watched for any chance to escape, but the terrain was open, with only occasional stunted trees and brush. He would clearly be brought down quickly if he made an attempt to escape.

They arrived at the enemy camp, and the circle of warriors surrounding him was augmented by the rest of the band. They stood in the open field, with the gruesome pile of dead men on one side, and a bonfire on the other; their horses gathered and hobbled nearby. 

The men began to goad him, and gloating, laughing shouts of triumph echoed across the valley, as Gwydion stood in impotent fury and despair. 

A smooth shaven, darkly clad, fair haired warrior came forth within the circle, with a band of iron with the seal of Annuvin at his forehead, and armed with a long black sword strapped across his back. His face was cruelly handsome; hard and angular, and his slate colored eyes were filled with both malice and intelligence. He raised a hand, and the other warriors immediately became silent. 

“I am Captain Aeron,” he said, “and I am very pleased to meet you, Prince Gwydion.” 

Gwydion nodded in return, but said nothing.

“As you have been tracking us, so we have been tracking you. Unlike what you may be used to seeing from Arawn’s war leaders, I am not a fool.

“I was second in command in the Horned King’s Army,” he continued. “I was looking forward to seeing you do battle with him; that would have been amusing, but at the end I saw you had a more cowardly way to deal with your enemy.”

“Cowardly?” Gwydion said. “I would call it effective. I was interested in ending the conflict with as little bloodshed as possible, and it seemed the most expeditious manner.” 

“Yes, no doubt it was effective, and the spirit of our attack was definitely broken; with our men seeing their leader burning like a tree in a forest fire before them. The cowards from the Southern cantrevs turned tail and ran, and our own men were little better, in spite of my screaming at them that the battle was not lost; it was only the loss of one man. 

“One animal of a man, with little on his mind but the joy of killing—only the most rudimentary thought of strategy, and hiding a great weakness…that you with your foxlike cunning, were able to discover.”

Gwydion nodded, acknowledging the cynical compliment. “I take it that you do not consider yourself to be encumbered by any such weakness.”

“Indeed not,” Aeron said. “After I returned with the remains of our mortal army, Arawn put me in the Horned King’s place. I was always his most skilled warrior, and am now his War Leader—leader of all his mortal hosts.

“With that excellent decision, Arawn sealed not only your own fate, but also the fate of your people; to be followed quickly by the subjugation of all of Prydain. No, I have no such weakness. No secret name by which to destroy me; you know the only name I have ever carried, and you are powerless to stop me.

“Also, I have a mind that can think beyond brute force and the obvious, which is something that the Horned King never enjoyed; he never listened to my counsel. Your entire quest, ever since leaving Caer Dathyl, has been orchestrated by me. 

“Yes, we were after the corpses as well. In the end however, our foray was a trap and a ruse to capture or kill you—and relieve you of your sword, which our lord has taken a great interest in. Your own fate is less important to him, although it is true that he loathes you—but I have not yet decided if I will kill you here or if I should march you to Annuvin for our lord’s sport. Either way, the sword is mine…but you may die sword in hand, if you wish. It is said that the Sons of Don have grown soft and afraid of battle. You now have an opportunity to prove otherwise.” 

“Perhaps you are not as well informed as you believe,” Gwydion said, as his own anger and pride erupted inside him, like molten lava.

In a flash he unsheathed the sword, and the flame glittered in the darkness, glowing even the brighter with scorn for his enemies; so close, and there was an audible gasp from Aeron’s men.

Aeron scowled, and took a small step back, before he smiled and spoke again. “Then again, perhaps marching you in your shame to Annuvin is the better course, and Arawn himself can deal with the enchantment of your blade.”

The jeers and taunts around him in the circle rose once again, growing uglier and more perilous.

Of all things, Gwydion knew that the sword must not fall into Arawn’s hands; whether he could use its power directly or not. He felt an ultimate defeat looming; for himself, for those he loved, for all of Prydain. All because of his own folly.

As desperation hammered on the doors of his thoughts, he struggled to quiet his mind. Suddenly, his thoughts expanded and reached out, seeking the consciousness and wisdom he had felt at Oeth-Anoeth. 

He felt the mind of Hen Wen, and close by, the mind of her master. He uttered a request of only a few words, but he knew he had been heard, as the feeling of infinite consciousness faded, and his mind returned to that of a mortal man. 

* * *

Far to the south, Dallben awoke, and heeded the nervous squealing of Hen Wen, close by in her pen. His eyes cleared quickly, and became sharp blue crystal points of light as he rose, and drew his shawl over his bony form. 

In his chamber, leaning against one wall and surrounded by other curiosities, he drew out a bow, its golden color long faded, and a long golden arrow. The bow had a history that stretched back into the ancient days of Prydain. It was said to have been held by many famous warriors, and was once touched by Govannion himself. 

Dallben closed his eyes, and sighed deeply for a brief moment. 

When he re-opened them, his body was that of a young man; beautiful, lean and muscled. His face was smooth and handsome; his beard just a memory. He grasped the bow, and its golden color glowed bright once more. He put the bow to the instep of his foot and quickly strung it with a powerful motion, and in another few seconds was outside in the courtyard. 

Eilonwy, up in her loft, had awoken as suddenly as Hen Wen and Dallben. She had been stirred from sleep this way in Spiral Castle more than once; and for a brief moment she found herself back there in her chamber, awakening to the tingling of magic in the air, as Achren cast some spell. This magic though, she quickly realized, was not of Achren; the smell and taste were entirely different. She had felt this enchantment before in the presence of Dallben; but always muted, never so strong and out in the open. 

She rose and moved quickly to the window, and in the courtyard, she saw the form of a young man. He was uttering words of strong enchantment over a bow and arrow, and she quickly felt the spell as akin to one she had almost learned from Achren, and had deployed without complete success last summer against the Cauldron-Born.

Entirely on instinct, she closed her eyes and uttered her own words. For some reason, she remembered them all now, even those she had forgotten in her attempt last year...and even some new ones that she had never uttered before. Had she heard Dallben say them, perhaps? She was not sure. 

She felt her own enchantment suddenly rise and join with the powerful spell she felt in the air around her. Dallben’s enchantment was gold, hers was silver, and they mingled to make a new color and taste.

When she opened her eyes again and peered out, the youth was already drawing the bow; the powerful muscles in his back rippling in the dim starlight. He faced north, the arrow pointed halfway to the zenith, and he released. 

The arrow was a streak of silver and gold in the predawn sky, but it did not fall to earth. Instead, it traveled onward, far north, like a shooting star, soon crossing the horizon. The young man quickly unstrung the bow and strode back to Dallben’s cottage, and as she watched, his form faded; still tall but now wizened, with back slightly bowed, and a flowing white beard. 

Dallben leaned heavily on the now faded bow like a walking stick, as he walked slowly to the doorway. He looked up at her, his sharp blue eyes still glowing with the power and light she had seen in the youth, and silently acknowledged her.

She felt so drained, so tired and sleepy—but she resolved to question Dallben further about this in the morning; it was sure to be something quite interesting. The bright colors and tastes were fading now, as her pallet became even more deliciously warm and comfortable…she laid her head on her soft pillow, and knew nothing more.

* * *

Still surrounded by the taunting warriors, who moved ever closer as their fear of the flaming sword diminished; Gwydion sensed rather than saw the streak of light that came to earth in the morbid pile of broken corpses, and his heart leaped.

A tall sheet of flame shot up; immediately engulfing the bodies, that burned as if soaked with oil. The taunts of the warriors turned to screams of terror, and the circle was broken as more than half the men raced for their horses, and were soon galloping from the valley in spite of Aeron’s cries and calls for order. 

Gwydion moved quickly, taking advantage of the confusion, with Melyngar rearing at his side, her hooves like hammers, striking down warriors of her own accord. He moved like a grey shadow to the nearest bowman and cut him down, not wasting strokes, shifting quickly to the next that dared nock an arrow, until the one remaining threw down his bow and fled. He crossed swords with two men, who looked at him blankly as he moved past them. They did not know their wounds were mortal. The aorta lay only a finger’s breadth beneath the skin; the carotid even less.

Soon all the remaining warriors were either dead or fleeing for their lives, and only Captain Aeron remained, as Gwydion turned to face him. He smiled, reached over his shoulder and drew his long black sword; slimly built, like an evil needle.

“Prince Gwydion, it seems you still have a few surprises left to offer. Your famous friendship with the wizard in the south has cost me one of my prizes…but not the other. Guard yourself well, for what little good it will do you. This sword comes from the forge of Arawn himself, and the next few moments will be your last. Never fear, in short order Arawn shall have your sword and its spell will be broken—or even better, bent to his will. I might even fancy carrying it myself…very soon.”

Aeron struck like a viper, moving with a speed and skill Gwydion had never seen. He was quickly put on defense, struggling to parry the lightning thrusts of his opponent, and swinging his blade only to strike the air, as Aeron had already moved to another position, and readied another thrust or strike. For several moments, Aeron moved around him like a maddening satellite, seemingly reading his thoughts, anticipating his every move, and answering his every counterattack with practiced ease. 

Gwydion saw an opportunity, and made a rapid backswing, only to see his agile opponent duck the blow, and strike him in the waist as he moved quickly past. Gwydion reeled, but readied his defense again. He felt his blood and skin burning at the point of the strike, and knew that the blade was poisoned, or perhaps enchanted. 

With blinding speed, Aeron struck again. Gwydion parried deftly, but once more Aeron was faster, the point of his blade ripping a gouge into Gwydion’s left forearm as he flew past and behind.

For a second time, Gwydion felt the burning as the blood trickled down to his hand. He noted grimly that the trampled snow around them was now sprinkled and stained pink with his blood, draining away…as was his hope.

He was exhausted and his mind was losing its focus, but he forced himself again to be calm. He had only a few moments of life left; he must change the game. Aeron was the superior swordsman; he knew every attack, defense and feint Gwydion had ever learned, and much more. Perhaps he had learned too much, Gwydion thought suddenly. Also, he harbored a great avarice for Dyrnwyn; although he knew himself to be unworthy to carry the blade.

Summoning all his remaining speed and strength, Gwydion went on the attack, and pressed Aeron back. Just the wrong moment, Gwydion hesitated, the two blades crossed in midair, the furious white flame sparking against the black metal, now glowing red. 

By trained instinct to take advantage of the position, Aeron’s gloved hand shot forward to bind the swords where they crossed. Gwydion twisted his wrist, and his opponent’s hand struck the blade. He cried out; his hand involuntarily closing on the blade in reflex to push it away, and Gwydion released the hilt, leaving the glowing blade in Aeron’s now clenched fist. His eyes grew wide, and he fell to the ground; Dyrnwyn still in his grasp, with the smell of burned leather and flesh in the air.

Aeron’s cold eyes now reflected the early morning cloudless sky, focused on nothing. 

Gwydion retrieved the sword and sheathed it, and stumbled toward Melyngar, struggling to stay conscious. He fumbled with his saddlebags, and pulled out healing herbs. They had been a gift to him from Adaon, son of Taliesin. Adaon had told him they were of great power, and to save them for the direst need. That time was certainly now. 

There were still smoldering coals in the bonfire, and water in the stream nearby. With trembling hands that he forced to keep moving, to keep obeying his will; he steeped the herbs, and applied the poultice to the wounds on his arm and in his side. 

Melyngar stood guard next to him, her nostrils flaring and blowing in concern, as he threw down his bedroll, and lay down on the snow covered ground to rest…he must rest, every movement had become an impossible effort.

He was almost asleep, when he saw the silhouettes of the warriors on the hilltop to the south, and his heart sank. The remaining warriors of Annuvin had regrouped; they saw their leader dead, but Gwydion clearly wounded. They began moving down the hillside toward him, and Gwydion fought to stand, hoping to at least die on his feet. His hands sought the sheath of his sword once again, but he had no strength to draw it.

Suddenly, the sound of hoofbeats approaching from the north reached his ears. From over the rise, like a fevered and wishful dream, a company of warriors of Madoc approached, their banner unfurled. At their head rode Maelmadog, and King Morgant himself. 

Ever superb in battle, Morgant and his warriors charged the remaining force of Annuvin, while Gwydion stood and leaned on Melyngar, watching them gratefully. 

Two of the enemy horsemen broke free of the melee; and galloped toward Gwydion, clearly aiming to run him down. Gwydion once again prepared to try and fight, but Morgant himself intervened. As he charged between the two riders, he placed expert blows left and right, and both horsemen fell. 

Soon all of the enemy had been dispatched, and Morgant once again approached.

“My prince, we thought we had lost you,” he said, as he dismounted. For a moment, they clasped hands. “Please, sit and rest,” Morgant said, concern in his voice, and on his face. He called to his men, bidding them to tend Gwydion’s wounds and wrap them, and bring him water.

“Likewise, I did not expect to see you,” Gwydion said, trying to smile with a strength he did not feel. “…and as usual, I am in your debt. How did you fare in the attack?” 

Morgant grimaced, and said, “I am both pleased and sorry to say that the attack never happened. We continued receiving reports of a large force approaching, several scouts confirmed it…but after two days, it never arrived. Apparently, the enemy force quickly withdrew under cover of darkness, for whatever reason. Of course now it is clear; it was sent to draw us away from your quest, and I was enraged to realize how I been fooled. We set out early this morning to find you—and such was our good fortune. We will stay with you here; until you are strong enough to travel.”

Gwydion pondered the unusual behavior from the enemy, and what it might portend, but only nodded in response. 

For another day, Morgant and his company remained at the camp with Gwydion, and tended him while he recovered his strength. Thanks to Adaon’s herbs, his wounds now looked normal. The bodies of the war band’s victims had burned to ash, and the bodies of Aeron and all of the dead from Annuvin were burned by Morgant’s men. 

When he was able, Gwydion took up the sword of Aeron, with the mark of Annuvin upon it. He laid it atop two tall stones the appropriate distance apart, unsheathed Dyrnwyn, and struck down viciously on the dark blade; cleaving it in two in an eruption of white and red sparks. The two halves were buried there, in the soft clay near the stream.

“Will you return with us to Caer Cynfael?” Morgant asked, as Gwydion saddled Melyngar later that day. “You are far from healed, and it is a long journey to Caer Dathyl.”

“No,” Gwydion said. Thank you, but I must return swiftly.” 

He looked Morgant in the eye, searching from some sign he could read, as Morgant directly returned his gaze.

“I am pleased that your fortress was spared an attack, and that more Madoc blood was not spilled. We will meet again soon…and until then, farewell. Once again, my valiant friend, I owe you my life.”

“It is my highest honor to serve you, my lord,” King Morgant said as he bowed. “Remember, you can always rely on the house of Madoc, and I look forward to making firm the plans we discussed. Please, take care on your homeward journey, and see to your wounds.”

Morgant and his men mounted their own horses, and soon departed toward the Caer Cynfael. Gwydion watched them for a moment, deep in thought, and strangely saddened for some reason. Finally, he turned Melyngar to the east, toward the Eagle Mountains and home. 

The next day, Maelmadog received a summons for an audience with his lord in the Great Hall of Caer Cynfael. When he arrived, he found Morgant looking thoughtful, stroking his chin, his hooded falcon eyes set on the far distance. Maelmadog felt a strange apprehension, as he had once or twice in the past in Morgant’s presence, when his thoughts turned dark and inscrutable.

“Tell me Maelmadog, have you ever journeyed to the Marshes of Morva?”

* * *


End file.
